“It is a very fine portrait,” I agreed.
“Fine enough to make you fall in love with me?” Philip asked.
“Yes,” I admitted in a soft voice scarcely above a whisper.
“That is to be expected.” Philip nodded. “When the portrait was first completed and hung in my father’s palace for all to admire, a servant girl stabbed herself in despair before it because she loved me but could not have me. She was quite right to do so; she was an ugly little thing.”
“Oh the poor child! That is so sad!” I cried.
“You are too softhearted, Mary,” Philip rebuked me, “too sentimental. These things happen; it is the way of the world. It is a good thing that I have come to you; you need a firm hand to guide you.”
“Yes, I am too soft,” I readily admitted. “I have always dreamed of having a husband who would be a strong, firm, and commanding presence at my side, to walk through life with me, to help, teach, and guide me. Too often, I let my heart rule me, though I try not to. I cannot seem to stop, and that is not a good policy for a monarch, to be so swayed by sentimentality.”
“Well, I am here now,” Philip said, “and I am strong, so we will have no more of that. Emotion is the enemy. To show it is to show yourself weak; it is a mark of failure.”
Philip bent and lifted the heavy, fringed brocade cloth that covered the table and tucked it back so that the bare space beneath showed. He glanced over at me, then back again at the dark, shadowy space.
“Come here and kneel down,” he directed, “here, before me, beneath the table but not so far that you cannot reach me.”
“But . . .
why?”
I asked, my brow furrowing with confusion. I did not understand what he wanted of me.
“Because I am your husband and that is what I have told you to do, and it is your duty to obey, not question,” Philip answered sternly. “I am your husband, yes?” And at my nod, he continued. “And as such I am like Christ on earth to you?” he asked, and again I nodded. “Then come here, kneel down, and worship me, Mary!” he ordered. “Worship me on your knees! Worship me with your mouth!”
My face blanched and my knees nearly buckled with horror as understanding suddenly dawned on me. He meant for me to put . . .
that
. . . in my mouth!
“But surely I cannot beget a child that way? Or . . . can I?” I hesitantly inquired with an uncertain quaver in my voice, for in truth I knew little of such things and was not entirely sure.
“This”—Philip took his organ in his hand again and stroked it—“what we are to do right now, is not about conception. This is for
my
pleasure. Later, we will do our duty as King and Queen and attend to the other business.”
“But conception is the purpose of marital relations!” I exclaimed. “A man’s seed should
never
be spilled in vain!”
“It will not be spilled,” Philip impatiently retorted, “unless you fail me. Let us come at once to an understanding. Hear me now. Henceforth, my seed will be to you like mother’s milk is to a baby. I want you to suckle greedily, as hungrily as an infant. And I will look at myself in the mirror and together what my eyes see and what your mouth does will give me
great
pleasure. Then when I am ready to spend myself I will look down at you. I want to watch you swallow every drop, and then beg for more, grovel, kiss my feet, and beg and plead as if your life depended on it, and, perhaps I will be generous and grant your request.”
“No, oh no!”
I cried as, one by one, all my illusions about love and marriage shattered.
I ran past him into my private chapel and slammed the door.
I hugged my arms about me and doubled over, feeling so ashamed to stand before the crucified Christ in all my nakedness, even though it was with great compassion that His dark eyes gazed down on me.
The door flew open, banging hard against the wall with a sharp retort like a gunshot, and Philip roughly seized hold of me. He thrust me facedown upon the altar and struck me hard across my bare buttocks several times, hard enough to make me cry out, before he roughly pulled me up, put me over his shoulder, and carried me out and threw me onto the bed.
Everything went black as he snuffed the candles out, and then I felt the warmth of his body upon mine and his fingers probing, questing and inquisitive, between my thighs, provoking such lovely sensations that I instantly lay back, sighing, blissful and content. So enraptured was I by his touch that I quite forgot the shocking peculiarities and violence that had preceded this. Then his hand rose up to cover my mouth, to stifle my scream, as I felt a sharp pain like a lance being driven into my womanly parts. And then . . .
Oh!
Then the most exquisite sensations, so wonderful they defy words to describe and, out of modesty, I dare not even try. Suffice it to say that in my beloved’s, my husband’s, arms I discovered to my astonishment, and immense delight, that my body, which myself and others had so often thought of as a wizened old maid’s perpetually pure, chaste, and virgin carcass, had been made for love. I arched my hips and sighed and clutched his body close to mine, wrapping my arms and legs tight around him. I could not get enough of his touch, this marvelous expression of his love, this special, sacred union that God had created just for husband and wife to enjoy together as they strove to achieve the miracle of conception. God had given me yet another miracle! Philip’s touch lit a fire in my soul and my flesh harkened to his. I lost myself in his embrace and found a new part of me I never knew existed.
And then he gave a great groan and a shudder and he lay heavily upon me, with his head resting upon my shoulder, whilst the warmth of his seed flooded my womb. I stroked his hair and back tenderly.
“I never knew it could be like this!” I whispered into the dark.
“Pray that your womb will be fruitful,” Philip said, perfunctory now that his passion was spent. He rolled off me and, obediently, I got up and knelt, heedless of my nakedness, beside the bed and fervently prayed to God that it would indeed be so, that his seed would anchor in the safe harbor of my womb and bring forth God’s most precious miracle of all—a child.
Philip was gone when I awoke the next morning. Soon afterward, a group of Spanish gentlemen and their ladies came to my door, singing and bearing gifts of fruit and wine and pretty baubles.
Horrified, Susan and Jane shooed them away, explaining, as best they could as they knew little Spanish and the Spaniards knew little English, that in England it was customary for the bride to remain in seclusion, and not show herself in public or receive visitors, until the second morning after her wedding. The Spanish lords and ladies were greatly perplexed—in their country it was the tradition to greet the bride when she awoke with music and gifts—but they respected my wishes and retreated.
Secure in the knowledge that no one would be allowed to disturb me, I ignored the babble outside my bedchamber, and drew on my nightgown, blushing at the memory of Philip’s passion. Rather than ring for a servant, I went myself to fetch my lap-desk, and settled myself comfortably with my back propped against a mound of pillows to write a letter to my cousin, now my father-in-law, the Emperor, thanking him “for allying me with a prince so full of virtues that the realm’s honor and tranquility will certainly be thereby increased. This marriage renders me happier than I can say, as I hourly discover in my husband so many virtues and perfections that I constantly pray God to grant me grace to please him, and behave in all things as befits one who is so deeply beholden to him.”
The next morning I emerged from my bedchamber and went in search of Philip. I was wearing one of my favorite gowns and I wanted Philip to see me in it. It was made of quilted gooseturd green velvet latticed with seed pearls with a kirtle of green and gold stripes, profuse amounts of gold parchment lace, and a high gold lace collar that hugged my throat like a second skin. I knew I looked my best in it and I hoped Philip would like it as much as I did.
I was surprised to find him in the gallery, standing in a state of absorbed contemplation before the portrait of Elizabeth, the very portrait that I had ordered taken down and consigned to the attic with its face to the wall. It must have only just been restored; even then two servants were fussing over it with dust cloths, straightening the frame and polishing the gilt until it gleamed. Philip was staring most intently at Elizabeth and stroking the gold silk of his beard with a movement of his fingers that was rather sensuous and reminded me of the way I had seen him caress another part of himself in the privacy of my bedchamber.
“Good morning, my dear husband,” I said, reaching out to gently touch his arm and turn his attention to me.
But Philip did not look away from Elizabeth’s portrait, nor did he return my greeting.
“Why was your sister not invited to the wedding?” he demanded. “Appearances are very important, and her absence did not look right. Ambassadors and gossips alike take note of such things; it will be remarked upon. You must invite her to court at once.”
“I will not!”
I cried, stamping my foot as anger filled me and my head felt like to explode. “And she is
not
my sister! She is the bastard of that whore Anne Boleyn and the lute player Mark Smeaton, and I would not dishonor you by having you meet a woman whose soul is as dark and foul as . . . a . . . an overused privy! She is a traitor, always scheming against me, spinning plots against me like a spider spins its web, hatching them like eggs, and I cannot bear to have her near me!”
Philip turned and regarded me with eyes so cold they froze my heart. “Curtail your emotions, Madame. You speak with the frenzy of a madwoman, and Philip of Spain does not converse with deranged persons.”
Wounded to the core, and instantly contrite, I fell to my knees and caught desperately at his hands. “I am sorry! I will do better! I promise! Please, forgive me!” I implored, saying these same words over and over again as I wrapped my arms round his waist and clung to him as if I were drowning and only he could save me. “It is her fault! She always brings out the worst in me!”
Philip thrust me from him and I fell backward onto the floor.
“That is no valid excuse and is not grounds for absolution either!” he said sharply. “
You
let her do this to you;
you
let a girl young enough to be your daughter get the better of you by provoking you to behave thus, to cry, and rage, and weep, and carry on like a madwoman instead of comporting yourself like the Queen you are.”
Calmly, as if nothing were amiss, he folded his hands behind his back, and resumed his absorbed contemplation of Elizabeth’s portrait.
“Until we have a son, she is second in line to the throne, and as such must be treated with respect. Send for her. I am curious, I want to meet her. Now go to your room and dry your tears and take off that
hideous
dress; that collar makes you look like the giraffe in my father’s menagerie.”
And, without giving me a chance to answer, he turned his back on me and walked away, leaving me sitting on the floor before Elizabeth’s portrait.
“I rue the day you were born!”
I hissed at it, and it was all I could do not to fly at it, screaming my hate, and rip the canvas to shreds with my fingers.
But my husband was right. He was harsh, and brutally honest; he barked orders at me as if he were a general and I a common foot-soldier, but he was right to do so, to teach me and help me learn, to make me a better woman, and, God willing, a better queen. I could not continue to dispense mercy with such largesse; it grew commonplace and people came to expect it of me. It made me appear predictable, as well as womanly and weak, but with Philip’s help, if I could grow a callus on my heart, when I deigned to show mercy the gesture would be much more precious and seem all the more spectacular. It would also be more appreciated for its rarity. Philip was right—appearances really were important. I
must
do better. Then he would be proud of me and love me. His love would be my reward. And with those thoughts in mind, I stood up, dried my tears, and went to change my gown. When I reached my room Philip was waiting for me, naked, before the mirror. “Creep to me on your knees, Mary, just as you would creep to the Cross at Easter,” he directed.